Illusions
by Anna Ti'ana
Summary: Kanda/Allen/Lavi. Written for dgmkinkmeme. Prompt was 'Kanda dies, Allen and Lavi have sex in Kanda's bed.' Focus on the angstyness - not quite that much on the smut.


**Title:** Illusions  
**Rating: **R - NC17  
**Characters:** Kanda/Allen/Lavi  
**Summary: **'Kanda dies, Allen and Lavi have sex in Kanda's bed'  
**Spoilers/Warnings: **A few spoilers thrown in now and then. Angsty fic.  
**Disclaimer: **-man be Hoshino's baby, I write fic for no sane reason.  
**A/N: **Written for dgmkinkmeme. Prompt was 'Kanda dies, Allen and Lavi have sex in Kanda's bed.' Focus on the angstyness - not so much smut. Ahem. My first DGM fic... *nervous* Concrit, please? I'd honestly love to know where I'm going wrong.

* * *

The room is bare, painfully so.

A withered lotus, dead but frozen as a reminder of beauty that once was, floats in an hourglass on a table.

Muted sunlight peers in through window, fighting a loosing battle with thin but rather effective curtains, a quiet reminder that Yuu Kanda wasn't one for cheery bright things.

There is a cupboard in a corner. Cleaned clothes lie limply there, freshly washed, sans the scent of its owner. Without anything to distinguish, anything to hold, they might as well belong to any other room, any other cupboard, nothing particular at all.

No pictures, no mementos, nothing really.

No _Mugen_ – and that hurts because Mugen doesn't exist anymore; the exorcist and his blade are long gone.

Painfully bare, a sharp violent reminder of an exorcist's life, of Kanda's life, that they exist to save others, to save lives never to _live_ them.

Allen feels incredibly lost, hopelessly cluttered with emotion in the small, bare room.

* * *

They thought it would be their last battle. Death was starting to loom ominously and while it was said as a fact that they may win, _may _win, truthfully it would be by a slim chance and at the cost of several lives.

So many lives gone, so few left… The strings were being brought together, the final act, the last shot before the curtain fell and it was all over. Not without hope, not without belief – but very much without dreams. They would all make it to the final battle, and after that –

After that, who knew?

In an inn bordering on being seedy, the three of them sat copped in a tiny room. It wasn't in a remote far off location, but rather in the center of the soot-filled town. No point in hiding anymore. Everyone knew where everyone else was, friends and enemies. It was all a matter of time, now. Who moved first, quicker and jumped into the fray was all that counted. A few tricks up everyone's sleeve, nothing spectacular – time, all a matter of time.

The tension had been palpable, the Destroyer of Time had been tensed, Bookman Jr melancholy and Yuu Kanda had been sulking quietly in the corner under the garb of meditating.

The young man had reason to be tensed. He had been prepared to die. Not _willing_ to die, but aware of the inevitable nevertheless. To go against the Earl, defeat him and live seemed like a fantasy. What bothered Allen was the shadowy voice becoming clearer and clearer; the ghost of a reflection starting to swirl itself into reality. A face; he could see a face and an amused smile in the mirror.

Losing your life to save your friends lives? Perfectly fine.

Losing your mind, turning to dust in your brain to result in God-knows-what and having someone else in control of your body and possibly being killed by one of your friends? Cause for worry; definite cause for worry at the thought of Kanda violently slicing the 14th in Allen's body, effectively killing Allen too.

The least, the very least under so much pressure, the least the youngest exorcist could do was sigh.

"Tch. Stop sighing so loudly."

He wasn't even allowed to do _that_?

"What," Allen had snapped, "is your damn problem?"

And it had escalated, turned into a brawl, everyone so close to their breaking point; it didn't take much to spark a fight.

It was all Kanda's fault, really. Allen wasn't a mind reader, how was he to know that Kanda hated people worrying? That he hated and despised weakness in any form, the most in himself? The irritation was at himself for being worried and not being supposed to worry, lest of all for _bean sprout_. And the only reason dear Lavi wasn't jumping in and breaking the argument was because he had his own share of mess to deal with, and unlike the two – he could hide his emotions well. Altogether, it did not bode well.

Lots of drawing of weapons, Lavi's exasperated sigh and a few pieces of slashed furniture later found Kanda towering over Allen, Mugen at his throat, backing him against a wall.

"Get a hold of yourself, sprout."

"Easy for you to say."

"Maybe you both shouldn't –"

"I didn't think you were afraid of dying," Yuu sneered.

And then Allen snapped because he really wasn't, he _wasn't_ and it was cruel to say he was when he was the one being controlled and the one being offered as a sacrificial lamb and –

He punched him in the gut, with all the finesse of a street kid, slammed, kicked and tried to switch their positions, tried to tower over the antisocial dense rock and yelled – polite, sweet Allen had yelled '_You're not the one with the damn voice in your head!_'

For the briefest of heartbeats, the swordsman had looked stricken. Like the possibility of Allen going insane terrified him. Wide eyed, panicked _stricken_, if only for a few heartbeats. It was enough.

All you need is a moment of weakness, pink fleshy bait for the shark to seize and devour and claim as his prey –

And then you're doomed, so very doomed because you had a moment of weakness in your otherwise spotless eighteen years of existence.

Allen claimed.

He flung himself, sans dignity, making the Japanese exorcist 'oof' and claimed a pair of cold, unwilling, startled lips, for a heartbeat.

And then he withdrew as quickly as possible because as much as Kanda _looked_ like bait, he acted like a shark and who was claiming who and what –

Mugen lay clenched in his fist and one move and Allen would be beheaded and wouldn't that be funny?

He made a _noise_ and instead of the sword Kanda grabbed Allen's collar and dragged him fast enough to hurt but close enough to kiss, which they did.

The youngest exorcist in turn made a happy noise and tried to fling himself at the older exorcist even more, abandoning any need to support himself, leaving it all up to the other and reducing them to an undignified slump on the floor.

Except it didn't matter, nothing really seemed to.

It was fierce, hungry, impulsive, slobbery, and embarrassingly artless. Allen clawed and clung at Kanda, starved for touch, not sure how to ask for it all at once.

Strong hands at his hips and gently Allen was being _gently_ pushed away, while he whined softy at the lack of kissing but stayed transfixed by the softly creeping blush on Kanda's face.

Close, but not close enough, foreheads touching, little puffs of breath and a nose that seemed to nuzzle, _wait_, the Japanese nose seemed to say, _wait_.

And Allen waited for what felt like an eternity till they were close enough again, till they kissed again.

It was different, very different from the first; languid, slow, gentle, more being traced and mapped with tongue and lips than gnashed and slobbered. Slow heat, burning up from inside, fingers soothingly trailing in soft white hair and Allen let out an involuntary moan, couldn't not, really, not with the heady feeling of affection, lust and a tinge of desperation with the urge to _live_ before dying, if only for a little bit.

He breathed little puffs of air against Kanda's lips, felt him do the same, eyes half closed, half lost.

"Lavi," a soft whisper against Kanda's cheek and Allen could almost feel Kanda's fingers itch for Mugen in anger.

"Lavi" he repeated, turning to finally look at the redhead.

One green eye looked at the sprawled figures quietly, caught in the act of leaving the room. Leaving the room to let them cross that line between love, hate and insanity – the line people insisted was there, but wasn't really. Bookman Jr didn't need to record this, his presence wasn't needed and he was about to leave but –

Grey eyes look at him, nearly drunk with emotion because what –

Yuu looked at him cautiously, dark blue eyes calculating, wondering what –

"Stay," the boy clearly whispered and Bookman Jr was torn. The successor of Bookman wasn't needed there, _Lavi_ isn't supposed to exist as anything more than a mask and why –

But Allen held out an arm and he was powerless; the silly sap of being Lavi, not just a mask but _Lavi_ who wants, loves, has always loved and he obeys.

Takes hold of, kneels and waits wondering what is to be done with him, waits for Walker's verdict and tries very hard to not think, he's being stupid – of course he'll think, but he _tries_, just as everyone does, he tries and hopes its enough.

A kiss; just as between them, just as how things are supposed to start. A kiss and Kanda grunts and tries to save his legs from crushed by the two idiots. Lavi's own passion surprises him; he's always been so used to keeping in check, being in control, head before heart, duty before life. _Let go_, never crossed his mind, but he does.

Allen winds up below him, forced on the floor and arches up with a horribly seductive gasp. And Lavi whimpers, broken, torn because if the battle doesn't kill him, Bookman will.

Yuu's fingers affectionately fiddle with his headband, Lavi's one eye going wide.

Allen looks pleased, like everything's all been sorted out. Like everything is clear. Pleased as if one sixteen year old exorcist hadn't just put a large obstacle in a Bookman's life, as if he hadn't just tried to smash Yuu Kanda's façade.

So ridiculously pleased as he manages to hold them both and it's obvious Walker looks like someone who finally knows what he wants.

. . .

They are not prepared. They are exorcists and a future Bookman masquerading as an exorcist and they're prepared for a great many things.

For Death, always peeping, always waiting, inevitable but they're prepared for early deaths. For wounds, stabs, blood, guts, gore. To remember in excruciating detail, everything from good to bad, every agony, and every fight; prepared for nightmare born from the vivid photographic detail. For trauma, for a life of not living but existing to fulfill duties, not because they've been forced or asked to – because they're the only ones who can. Prepared for all the worst things in life, prepared to throw nearly everything away, prepared, completely, as exorcists and a future Bookman.

What they are not prepared is for is snippets of lightheartedness, to feel human. For suffocating affection that refuses to be acknowledged as anything deeper because that'll be the end of them all.

They're really not prepared – for sex – and lest of all for sex to involve more than two people; the least of their worries that there isn't a female in sight or thought.

It's awkward, very much so but they make it work. The floor's horribly uncomfortable but Yuu's teenage body is writhing, making short work of any control and throwing in the element of frenzy. Crawling to the bed is not an option.

There is no lubricant, whatsoever – because neither of them have time to fuck around to be prepared for that and cream seems like the furthest thing to a soldiers mind to carry around all the time. Hazily Lavi wishes Lenalee were here because at least she would have _something_ and it would be easier. But Allen whimpers, thrusts back desperately, fingers hastily removed and Lavi tries very hard not to hurt him as he pushes inside him, lips parted in an eternal moan.

Weaving his fingers with Allen's, slowly stroking heated, hardened flesh dripping with franticness; gently, insistently thumbing the tip and – _oh God _and trying, again, trying not to fall apart. Kanda makes a horrible strangled shout, clutching Allen, eyes dazedly fixed on Lavi and then he _does_ fall apart.

In the end, amidst the horrible mess of hormones and great big vat of uncomfortable, satiated with too big hearts being smashed, pounded on and _alive _and beating almost painfully threatening to burst– it's Allen who looks the happiest, the sanest amongst them all.

_Ridiculous_, thinks Lavi as the grey-eyed boy clings to him over Yuu's body and Yuu tries his hardest to pretend he's not being smashed in between two idiots. Allen, the sanest among them all, how utterly preposterous! _Ridiculous_, his brain chants over and over again till he's the only one left awake. Till the long haired exorcist sleepily nuzzles into him and Lavi's brain turns into a happy silly puddle undoing years of training and abandoning intellect. Bookman really would _kill_ him.

Ridiculous, insane, idiotic – the three of them; no wonder they fit so well.

* * *

The bed, thinks Allen; the bed, of course.

He half stumbles, walks to the unassuming bed and sniffs – there – _almost_. Blankets, covering sheets, hurriedly pushed aside and there – he buries his nose in the pillow, trails his fingers along the cold sheet and inhales, pretends, inhales, he can still feel Kanda. The snowy haired exorcist can still smell traces of him and the most overpowering smell is – soap and he nearly laughs.

He isn't crying – he burrows in the pillow, wraps the sheet around him and it's as good as the sulky exorcist being there, what need is there to cry then, none at all.

When he squeezes, squints his eyes against the bed all he can see is a huge expanse of white. Pure white, not an ounce of vivid red, blood flowing, never ending, so much blood and it wouldn't stop and – white, he thinks blinking dazedly.

Just like the sheets at that inn. Almost all sheets are white, but this is the exact same shade, the same feel, the same texture, they might as well be the same. The bed that they barely used, the one they half tumbled into because Allen sleepily kicked Kanda and the resulting squabble woke them up enough to blearily use the bed. These sheets remind him of that bed and he's pleased. It's comforting, very comforting… He drifts off to sleep dreaming of Lavi's amused laugh and Kanda wearing only his coat trying to steal a sheet; sprouts for breakfast and a sword instead of chopsticks.

. . .

Someone is petting his head and it's perfect. His senses are full of Kanda and the hand that softly plays with his hair can only be –

"Lavi" he croaks and he's surprised to see a tear-stained eye. Why would – and as Lavi's hands gently wipe away his tears he realizes he has been crying too, the pillow is damp, Kanda's soapy-silly smell would go and why – _oh_.

Oh.  
And the world creaks and spins its annoying rhythm again.

Pity it doesn't freeze, stop and give time. It spins violently and all you can do is hold on, that's all there is time for.

There are warm arms around him and Lavi's scent is muffling Kanda's, he tries to break away, back to burrowing in the pillow while holding on to dear sanity for Lavi. Both, he thinks feeling pleased again as he can feel them both. One's body draped over him and the other's presence everywhere; he's content.

Except Lavi keeps breaking the illusion by hiccups and he forces Allen to remember, forces Allen to cling on back to the world because he can't afford to be flung off – especially not now, not when it really seems like the end is near. Bit by bit cracking the fog, reminding him of blood when all he wants to see is white, the redheads hair dull in comparison to the slowly trickling life force of the swordsman.

The world spins a little faster and he holds on by kissing him half heartedly. He can feel tears; Lavi's and his tears mingling as they hold on for dear life. Little sniffles and grey eyes observe that Bookman Jr's face looks vaguely blotchy, pink; almost red. Red, red just like – but he doesn't let them think as Allen gets kissed again, more feeling, more pain with every breath. He gives back the same, as they share sorrow that is perhaps not appropriate in public and the kind that can't be understood by anyone else.

It is inevitable, just like death, he broods. It is inevitable, which is why he isn't surprised when his brain starts stringing together things to find himself head turned to the side, trying to greedily inhale the soapy-silly smell while Lavi trails hot wet kisses to chest as if it's the last time. It probably will be, he realizes in shock and grabs and just holds him, _slow_, he pleads internally, _slow_.

Lavi understands, complies.

Achingly slow. What could be a quick frenzied act is dragged out paper-thin, stretched tight. Very slow, slow enough to stop and think; to let grief catch up again before they try not to think. So slow, so broken that it feels like several acts and not just one dragged out till the pain's a sharp wound.

An unhurried search through the drawers and Allen lies bleakly and remembers Kanda's refusal to carry anything even remotely related to lubrication. As if that in itself is a weakness. It was Lavi's and Allen's job to ensure that there were no aching bottoms. Stupid silly pride, as if sex, lo–affection was a weakness. Stupid silly pride along with his stupid soapy-silly smell.

_Kanda._

The redhead ignores the fresh tears, grey eyes pretend not to see the others either and back they go, resuming the dragged out dance. Half grief, half greed, slowly played before the final act of everything.

Allen spreads his legs as Lavi shifts, moves and that too is slow. He fists his fingers in the sheet and pretends the sheet is Kanda's skin, pressed against his back. They're there the three of them, in an echoing sort of way.

Finally Lavi moves and Allen whimpers remembering the inn again. Back then it felt like they were three separate pieces of a puzzle that suddenly fit together. Always trying their hardest to mould and hold each other, three pieces that made a tiny, but perfectly whole picture.

And now it was just two, trying painfully, _trying_ to fit together again; but that was just silly. What was once three could never be two again. The same picture could never be recreated, it would be different, it wouldn't be the same….

He tries to twist, turn and burrow his nose into sheets. Three, his brain thinks feebly, three, not two.

Lavi pauses, takes a ragged breath and _looks _at Allen. Looks like it's the last and he looks bewildered, distraught and resigned at the same time. Complex, Lavi's far more complex than most people; Allen thinks and pushes himself up.

Strong arms wrap around him and he lets go of the sheet, the pillow, the wavering illusion and clings to the redhead. Fogs his senses, his brain with everything that screams Lavi, Lavi, Lavi and tries stupidly not to cry.

They both try very stupidly not to cry. Two pieces wanting to be three, fooling themselves with illusions, in _his_ bed, pretending when it's pointless, impossible to drag something out forever and trying anyway, wasting time when there's barely any to waste... So very stupid.

Back again, nearly the end of the dance.

Their own private world swirls and reaches the crescendo, almost – and then – it's over.

. . .

Allen thinks it's almost funny the way Lavi holds him tightly near the door, the way he inhales as if he's committing Allen's hair to memory, every stupid hair, the way he smells, how he feels – every silly thing about him with such affection. It was always love, silly them for thinking otherwise and he clings back twice as hard.

They kiss and it's definitely a goodbye.

The future Bookman opens his mouth to say something, maybe to urge to tell him not to die – but he seems to reconsider and whispers '_Take care_' before going away. Allen, leaning against the door, appreciates the wave, the forced lighthearted walk as he walks away.

The sheets, he thinks in distraction, should be changed. It screams, it tells and everyone will know. That is, if there's anyone who doesn't know. Their long absence would already have confirmed the suspicions people had with the three of them. Pointless to try and hide now, especially when there never will be anything to hide again.

A mash of soapy-smell, of sex, the tang of sweat, traces of fluid, there's probably a stray strand of long hair – it's the final picture of the three of them; the only one that'll remain.

The future Bookman wouldn't enter this room again, the Destroyer of Time wouldn't have time to – and no one here would enter during this war. It would remain, frozen in its vulgarity, incomprehensible to others as something besides sex. Their hidden little secret turned into proof and hidden for God-knows-how-long. Maybe the next month, maybe the room will be given to someone else, sheets changed – or maybe not. Maybe... But it would remain for a while, while they moved on, some to places unreachable for now, some to fulfill duties and prophecies. It would remain while they went, holding together the illusion in their minds.

Allen mentally says goodbye and walks off. The fourteenth has started to talk. He talks and there's not enough time. Allen will have to leave the only home he's ever had, he will leave and probably never return. It is really is goodbye in every form.

One messy sheet is all that will ever remain of the illusion, the final act before the end of it all.

* * *

_Concrit makes me happy. Comments are love._


End file.
